


Of Mothrandir And The Fics Of Power

by Ashildr_Dorchadon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 16:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18450269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashildr_Dorchadon/pseuds/Ashildr_Dorchadon
Summary: Mothrandir drags Bilbo to an island fortress in order to maintain the world order. And compels Bilbo to come with his godly poetry.





	Of Mothrandir And The Fics Of Power

**Author's Note:**

> Bow before Mothrandir

In a hole in the ground on a sunny day in the July of 2944 of the third age of the sun and moon, there lived a hobbit. Twasn't a dry hole nor a wet one. A hobbit hole means comfort and comfort means a spoiled hobbit.  
Such a hobbit accosted Mothrandir, Poet Lord Of Arda, disciple of Nienna and rival to even Annatar himself. Ungrateful hobbits. Whatever Gandalf Stormcrow says, these wretches knew nothing of etiquette and manners. To flag down the carriage of Mothrandir himself, as if it were a mere pony cart, was rudeness of the highest degree, showing no manners nor breeding nor deference in the presence of betters. What was the world coming to? This hobbit decries himself in self-important tones to be none other than Bilbo, the very same author of that book "There And Back Again". Mothrandir thought it a terrible book, without any flourish or embellishment and this barely literate mortal dared to call him, he who brought the stony heart of Aulë to tears with his poems, a mere peddlar of poetry who performs for the delight of Old Took.  
Whilst at the behest of the Grey Pilgrim, he had once honoured this wretched country with his epic "Of Fire And Falling Stars", it was more than a lifetime ago and he had quite besides improved it by a thousand degrees since.

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"I say, good morning Old Mothy!" the hobbit Bilbo declared impishly.

"You do say it indeed." Mothrandir popped his head out darkly, wondering why he didn't run the elderly fool over.

"Aye, that'n I do." Bilbo took a puff of his foul pipeweed cigar – a disgusting habbit indeed "Now, you wouldn't happen to have a poem all prepared up? Only as I'm hosting a party for my eleventy-first birthday next September and you would make for the finest entertainment in all the shire."

"Next September? Well, I daresay you might have a while to come up with your own in that case." he told him, grouchily.

"Are you quite alright, Mothy? You seem a little under the weather. A headache?"

"No, no. I'm fine." Mothrandir hissed at him vehemently.  
"Sure? Anyways, I would, but nobody is as good as you. Please? For Old Took's sake?" the fat old spoilt hobbit was waving his grandfather's name about like it was some sort of binding spell. Mothrandir was going to have to disillusion the foul-smelling halfling.

"I only performed for that equally foul –––" Mothrandir was racked by a great shuddering wave of pain. Half writhing, he opened the carriage door and spilt himself onto the ground in front of the stupid fat hobbit. The burning sensation gripping him head to toe could only mean one thing. Manwë. What did that interfering busy-body want now? Mr.High-and-mighty, Lord over all of Arda was even now forcing his will upon Mothrandir and would begin his instructions at once. Stupid old has-been. He had no place in Middle-earth now. Go away.

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"Mothrandir." the old fart commanded in the privacy of my very own head.

"No. Go away."

"A job in Arda awaits thee."

"You always do have one of those. Why can't you send Curumnir or Gandalf? Or the blue wizards? Why always me?"

"Silence else I shall bind thee by Mandos himself! All Arda hangs in the balance!" he yelled. He always did that whenever he has his little jobs that Mothrandir don't want to do. And he never wanted them.

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"Mothy!" Bilbo shouted in alarm "Are you alright?"

Mothrandir gathered himself and stood up, dusting himself off as he went "Yes. Quite well. You understand, I trust, about Manwë, Varda and the other Ainur? Gandalf, Saruman, Mairon, etc."

"Gandalf? Well if he's involved, you must be some sort of league of wizards. Am I close or not?"

"As close as that house over there." Mothrandir told him dryly, pointing at a hobbit hill behind him.

"Let's turn this into a guessing game! Please? Next guess: these Ainur are a group of travelling entertainers."

"No! You're further away than Mordor now."

"Darn. A folk orchestra?"

"About Rohan."

"Better. How about wizard lords? Necromancers?"

"The bottom of this path."

"Surely not gods?"

"Bingo. We Ainur are the spirits that caretake over all Arda. The main host of the Ainur now live in Valinor with my master Manwë and his family."

"So you're a god?"

"Close enough. No kowtowing, please."

"Wow. And Gandalf?"

"Yes, the Grey Pilgrim is a lesser Ainur – a maiar. Like Mairon the Black."

"Mairon the who?" the fat old hobbit asked, genuinely clueless.

"You might know him better as Annatar or Sauron."

Bilbo of Bag End gasped at that. "S-s-auron?"

"Yes, he." Mothrandir confirmed, with all his reserves of patience being drawn upon.

"Where are we going with this talk of Einur and gods?"

"Ainur," the poet lord corrected him wearily, "well, my master is Manwë Lord of all the Ainur who did not fall the way Sauron and Melkor, his master, did. He has ordered me to find someone to go on a quest. And hearing of your adventures from his eagles, Gwahir and such, he has commanded me in his divine uppity-ness to take you along with me."

"Oh. Well the last quest I had lasted me a long while, over a year as I recall."

"Yes. And you have your birthday," Mothrandir finished for him, tired and sick of the whole ordeal before it had even begun, "however, I assure you that this will be a swift quest, we merely need to venture north and west a short while to visit the Grey Havens, then Forlond them Himring. All in all, it's half the length of the journey to Erebor and the tame roads ought to ensure we get there and back inside of five months."

The petulant tone has returned. "Why do you need me?"

"Because there is a chamber that only a hobbit can enter for the stone of the castle on Himring is magically protected after it collapsed fourty years ago. There are six holes created, all safe to enter, but too small for a man of my height to enter."

END OF CHAPTER 1


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